Her dreams aren’t coins—
they’re teeth,
and the night chews them to dust.
His poems aren’t art—
they’re tombstones,
each verse a fake name.
When they fuck, it’s not love—
it’s two prisons
comparing keys.
At dawn, he leaves
with her voice sewn into his pockets.
She lets him.
The street doesn’t miss him.
The street doesn’t care.
But she waits—
not for the poet,
but for the rot
to finally taste interesting.
"Why?" I ask.
She smiles:
"Nothing hurts better
than a wound
you can’t stop touching."
Now she carves his name
into the wall.
Not to remember.
To prove
the knife was real.
-
Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Offline) - Published: May 12th, 2025 00:53
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments3
This poem holds many truths, often we mortals tend to hold on to hurt, our scars seem to sometimes become like a trophy, and its is true there are women who hold on to hurtful love. Sometimes this is the only love they know. Though this is also true for men and for children. A fine poem this is!
Thank you for your insightful reflection on my poem. You’ve captured something profound—how pain can become a twisted keepsake, and how both men and women, even children, sometimes cling to hurt as the only love they recognize. I appreciate you seeing the deeper layers in 'Woman' and adding your own wisdom to the conversation. Your words remind me that truth in poetry stretches beyond the page. Grateful for your kind and thoughtful engagement.
An interesting write around our keeness to hold onto painful memories and loves, as if it they are like a souvenir, enjoyed the read
Thank you for seeing the heart of it—how we clutch old aches like keepsakes, as if tenderness lives in the scars themselves. Your words honor the poem’s quiet truth. Grateful it resonated with you.
You are very welcome
It is the bad, the ugliness, the pain that alerts some to their reality and for this some cut themselves, beat themselves, force themselves to stay in abuse. Such a dark price to pay for a sense of being real. Lovely poem a fave
Yes, the weight of existence sometimes presses hardest where the cracks let in the light. Pain, twisted as it is, becomes a mirror—proof we’re here, even when we’re shattered. Your words unravel a deep truth: how darkness can masquerade as a kind of belonging. Thank you for seeing the rawness in ‘Woman,’ for honoring its ache. Your voice, too, stitches meaning into the wounds we carry. Grateful for your kinship in these shadows.
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